I am not surprised the demon’s name is Knife.
I am surprised he takes the form of a paperknife.
Some mornings liquefy into mud upon the touch.
The sun on other days stages a thousand knives.
Maddened with grief, a man applies a stick of butter
to the dry place in which he will slide down his knife.
Another man, soft son to a hard father, jams
his daddy’s wife—his daddy’s cunt—with his meat knife.
The black ram will never wash white, no matter how
many hours the silk handkerchief rubs the knife.
Demons are so theatrical and so is love.
We overhear our whispering when we hold a knife.
Wonderful prop! To separate lovers, it joins hand
to handle, blade to body. Jee gives you, the knife!